“I couldn’t accompany you now. I’m too tired.”
“I accompany myself.”
“Go ahead then! But don’t forget that I am a critic!”
“You’d never have the heart to criticize my artless efforts.”
He sat down at the piano and began playing in a loose, execrable style which made her frown. But when he began to sing, her frown vanished. He had a delightful voice, true, strong, and full of touching fervour. He emphasized his Irishness, he sang old Irish ballads, exactly as they should be sung....
Andrée, leaning back in her chair and listening, was half amused at her own pleasure.
“Have I ‘worked up’ this mood?” she reflected. “What a darling he is! I’ll be glad to have him in the family.... He’ll be a nice foil for little rumpled Al.”
With his strong and tender voice still sounding in her ears, she held out her hand to bid him good-by. And perhaps without quite meaning it, she gave him a glance that went to his head. She saw him kindle, and she smiled, withdrawing her hand.
“Indeed I didn’t want to criticize!” she said. “It was very lovely!”
“You’d inspire a donkey!” he cried.